


No Sweeter Innocence

by magicbubblepipe



Series: Take Me to Church [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Major Character Injury, Rimming, Sibling Incest, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 18:49:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3540227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicbubblepipe/pseuds/magicbubblepipe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the year of Sam's seventeenth birthday and there's just one thing he wants from Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Sweeter Innocence

**Author's Note:**

> The second addition to the Take Me to Church series.

            Sam’s seventeenth birthday begins with a sweet, warm pressure on his dick. He slowly comes into wakefulness with a soft moan and a twitch of his hips. He feels a breathy little chuckle over his hot skin and he lifts up the covers enough to see Dean hovering over his still clothed erection, which is obscenely tenting his sleep pants.

He feels an awed, silly grin crawl across his features, sees it mirrored right there on his brother’s face, eyes glinting mischievously as he whispers, “Happy birthday, Sammy.”

Sam pushes a hand through Dean’s sleep mussed hair and rocks his hips up gently, nudging Dean’s chin. Dean takes the hint and presses his warm open mouth against the rigid line of Sam’s cock, kissing, breathing, sucking. Sam gasps, his head falling back on his pillow as his pants are wiggled down his hips, letting his cock slap back against his stomach.

Dean engulfs him almost immediately, sucking him down to the root with ease. Sam’s much bigger now than he was at fourteen but Dean has had plenty of practice. In fact, he tells Sam quite often how fond he is of his big cock, loves it in his mouth and driving down the back of his throat. He knows exactly how to get Sam off and right now he’s already breathing faster, trying to spread his legs a little further.

Dean’s hand wraps around his base as he pulls off to the tip, pumping agonizingly slow as his tongue flicks right under the head, stroking those nerves that make Sam’s breath catch. He dares to look down at his brother and he takes that opportunity to smile seductively, plush lips brushing against him.

“Come for me, birthday boy,” Dean says, dark and barely a breath and he rests Sam’s cock on his tongue.

Sam comes in hot white streaks over Dean’s tongue and lips, the sight of it sending more zings of pleasure through his body that seem to never end. Dean sucks him clean and gets him tucked back inside his pants before shimmying up beside him. Sam turns dazed hazel eyes on Dean and smiles, huge and so stupid in love.

Dean laughs a little and pinches Sam’s nose between his thumb and finger, much to Sam’s indignant displeasure. Which makes Dean laugh harder. “Get up, lazy-ass. We’re gonna go get some breakfast.”

Dean slides out of bed and shuffles into a pair of pants. “Shower’s all yours, Sammy. Know how long it takes to wash that girly hair.”

“Ha-Ha,” Sam scoffs, letting himself flop out of bed and shuffle to the bathroom.

Under the hot spray of the shower, Sam lets a sudsy hand wander behind his back, gliding down between his cheeks to press teasingly at his hole. He shivers a little, can’t believe that today is the day he’s finally going to ask Dean to give him what he wants. It takes all his power to not just slide his fingers in and give his body a little relief but he promised himself he’d wait until tonight.

He finishes scrubbing clean, turns the faucet toward cold to erase any lingering heat in his groin, which does the trick spectacularly well. When he immerges from the bathroom, he finds Dean fully dressed and waiting on the edge of the bed, attempting a cool, laidback posture. The only thing that belies his anxiety is a slight jiggle of his left leg. Sam smiles privately at how well he knows his brother.

Dean launches himself from the bed at the sight of Sam and hooks an arm around the damp curve of Sam’s waist. He pulls him in and presses a sound kiss to his slack lips and Sam smiles right into it. “’S’that for?” he asks, feeling his heart start to pound.

“Just can’t help it sometimes, y’know?” Dean responds, a little sheepishly, Sam thinks. He clears his throat and saves face by ruffling Sam’s already tangled wet hair.

Sam just bites his lip, trying to smooth the mess on his head back down. The hungry, possessive love Sam feels is threatening to split his chest right open and he contemplates jumping on Dean here and now. Christ, he’s got it bad. Before he can make any poor decisions, he hastily pulls on the clothes he picked out the night before. Specifically, the jeans that cause Dean to stare open mouthed at his ass and a shirt that’s short enough to show it off.

If the way Dean is following his movements with his eyes is any indication, he’d say it’s already working.

…

            Their first stop is a diner. The boys load up on stacks of blueberry pancakes and bacon, scuffing their feet together under the table like some 50’s lovebirds. Sam figures that it’s probably cheesy and ridiculous but he really wants to hold Dean’s hand. He only refrains because they came to this place only last week with their father. That thought gives him a dark little thrill that he doesn’t stop to analyze.

            The next stop is a movie theatre. Dean tells Sam to pick out any movie he wants to see. He considers choosing something like _Billy Elliot_ or _Chocolat_ but quickly thinks better of it and decides on _Dude, Where’s My Car?_ Much to Dean’s delight. It’s not like Sam’s buttering him up for later or anything like that.

            As it turns out, Sam actually enjoys the movie. It’s easy to get into and the way it makes Dean laugh is infectious. Dean catches Sam peeking at him out of the corner of his eye and places a hand on the armrest between them, palm up. Sam’s heart skips a beat and he slowly places his hand in Dean’s, hoping it’s not too sweaty or something. Dean’s fingers curl around his tight and he holds on for the rest of the movie.

            When they’re back in the Impala, Dean offers up his hand to his brother again and Sam is on Cloud 9. He gladly takes it and uses it to pull Dean close enough to kiss. He licks Dean’s bottom lip and pulls it into his mouth to suck. Dean makes a choked little sound and grips Sam’s thigh tight with his other hand. Sam pulls back with a chaste peck to Dean’s lips, sure to leave him wanting, and slides back over to his side of the car. Dean stares after him dazedly for a moment, swiping a tongue over his swollen lip. Sam is so hard he aches.

            “Let’s go back to the room,” Sam says, voice deep with intent.

            Dean just nods and throws the car in drive.

…

            Sam’s back hits the motel room door as soon as it closes and Dean is all over him, hands and mouth and hot line of his cock. Sam tips his head back and lets out a breathy sigh as Dean sucks a livid mark onto his neck. Sam slides his palms up over the powerful spread of Dean’s shoulders, down to the tapering small of his back. When he reaches the lush curves beneath, he hauls Dean in close to him, crushing their erections together.

            Sam licks his lips when Dean groans and he finally says it. “Dean…I want you to fuck me.”

            Dean freezes and Sam is terrified. “Sammy…” it’s shocked and it’s a warning but Sam isn’t ready to give up.

            “Please, Dean. I want it so bad. Wanted it forever.” He pulses his hips up against Dean’s, making the older boy curse.

            Dean thumps his head down against his brother’s shoulder and lets out a shaking breath. “Sam, fuck. I…man, you’re only seventeen. I can’t…”

            “M’old enough to know what I want,” Sam says against the shell of Dean’s ear, just grazing it with his lips, “And what I want is you.”

            Dean makes a sound like he’s dying and muffles it with his teeth in Sam’s shoulder. Sam can feel the eager jerk of Dean’s dick against his own like a little victory.

            “I know you want it too, Dean. I can feel how much you want me.”

            “’Course I want you, dumbass,” Dean says, pulling back far enough to look Sam in the eyes. “I want you so damn bad but that doesn’t mean I’m just gonna drop trou’ and shove my dick up your ass.”

            “Don’t act like you’re taking something from me, Dean. This is my choice,” Sam can’t help it if his voice gets a little rougher. Being told what he can and can’t do has always been a match to his powder keg temper.

            Dean steps further back, putting distance between them. “When you turn eighteen,” he says, his voice resolute. “And not a minute before.”

            Sam feels his expression darken, hot prickles pushing at the backs of his eyes but he refuses to cry. That would only fuel Dean’s righteous fire. Before he can say anything else, the door bangs open and nearly knocks Sam to the floor. Both boys scramble back as their father shoves his way in, slinging his heavy duffle onto the rickety little table.

            “Surprise, boys,” he says, with something close to cheer. “I’m back a day early.”

            “Uh, hey, Dad,” Dean says awkwardly, trying to look like he hadn’t just been dry humping his brother.

            “Happy birthday, Sammy,” John says then, turning his attention on his youngest son.

            Sam blinks at him a moment before he remembers to say “Thanks”.

            John procures from his bag a small package wrapped in newsprint and hands it to Sam with an expectant look. Sam takes it, bewildered at actually receiving a gift from his father and gently pulls the Scotch tape free, letting the contents slide out into his hand.

            It’s a knife. A huge bowie knife with Sam’s initials crudely carved into the hilt. His gut twists with disdain and he tightens his grip on the weapon. John doesn’t seem to notice his son’s anger and claps him proudly on the back.

            “You’re in luck,” he says, “Got a hunt lined up for tomorrow night.” Of course it’s about a hunt. It’s never about Sam. Not even on his goddamn birthday. When he tries to meet his brother’s eyes, Dean looks away.

…

            The car ride into Mississippi is tense to say the least. It’s the longest five and a half hours of Sam’s life. Hardly a word has passed between Sam and Dean as they follow John in the Impala, the faint sounds of Metallica the only thing to disturb the silence. Sam supposes he should feel some form of excitement about his first real hunt, no more “stay behind me, Sammy,” or “go wait in the car”. But all he feels is a vague sense of dread.

            That and also, the churning, roiling anxiety in his stomach about the distance growing between him and Dean. He’s still hurt and pissed about the way Dean treats him like a child but more than that, he’s worried that he broke something very fragile that won’t fit back together the same, like fine bone china. With a stuttering little sigh, he tries to turn his thoughts toward the hunt.

            The thing they’re hunting is what their father had called a _Jikininki._ Of course, he had to repeat himself about five times so the boys could wrap their minds around the foreign sound of it. It’s a Japanese creature, far from its home and leaving its calling card in the form of dug up graves and devoured corpses. He’s not one hundred percent on how to kill the thing but he figures that decapitation or fire should probably do the trick.

            They pull into a gas station behind John. Sam doesn’t want to linger in the car so he heads inside to use the bathroom and grab some bottled water. When he gets back the Impala, John is there too, journal in hand and a map spread out on the hood of the car. He’s showing Dean the location of the cemetery so they can come at the thing from both sides to trap it while it’s feeding.

            “It likes to come out just after sundown so we’d better get a move on,” John says, folding up the map and pushing it back into Dean’s hands.

            “Yes sir.” Dean says. Always the good soldier. Sam’s jaw clenches and he climbs back into the car.

…

            They arrive at the cemetery just as the sun is sinking below the horizon, the southern sky a beautiful mess of colors. The air coming in from the rolled down window is gradually beginning to cool, a welcome reprieve from the muggy summer day that’s kept Sam’s shirt plastered to his back. They’ve got the engine off, waiting in near silence for darkness or for their dad to give the word. Sam’s hand drifts to the blade he’s got holstered to his hip, testing the ease with which it pulls free.

            Several minutes tick by and the air between the brothers is crackling with the static of things unsaid. Sam feels close to apologizing (though for what he’s not sure) just so they can get past this. Dean’s hands are fidgeting on the wheel. He wants to say something, Sam is sure of it. He inclines his head toward Sam, meets his eyes for a second, opens his mouth as if to speak. And then the phone rings.

            They wait. The caller hangs up and then calls again. Dad. That’s their signal. With a silent agreement, they slide out of the car and pop the trunk. Armed with machetes, they venture out into the cemetery to meet their father.

…

            Many things happen at once and it’s difficult for Sam to keep the order straight in his head. They see the unmistakable shape of John Winchester skirting the line of trees on the opposite side of the graveyard. They’re heading for him, careful not to make a sound when they’re halted by a rank and heaving breath pushing at the backs of their necks.

            Startled, they whip around and facing them is a deadly ashen face and burning eyes, looming tall over them both. The mouth is a stretched maw of tearing skin, the stink of death issuing forth enough to make them gag. Dean moves first, wielding his machete and efficiently rending the monster’s head from its neck. A shout brings their attention to their dad, surrounded by three _Jikininki,_ all massively tall and with sharp black claws extending from bony fingers.

            The boys tear across the cemetery, vaulting over headstones and plunging into the fight, slinging blades right and left. In the flurry of combat, two things happen. Sam gets his machete knocked from his hands. Dean gets thrown backwards into a marble tombstone. In the time it takes Sam to pull out his knife, a _Jikininki_ has cornered his brother, who is defenseless against the claws slicing at his belly.

            In a wild moment of panic, Sam throws himself at the monster, tackling it to the ground. With all his strength, he plunges the bowie knife into its throat. It thrashes and gurgles, inky black blood spurting up out of the wound. Sam keeps hacking, has to take off its head. Slashing, carving through tissue and spinal cord, its skin going a livid purple, red eyes bulging. Sam distantly realizes he’s sobbing as he finally hacks its head free. Dean stares at him blearily from where he’s slumped against the headstone, barely conscious.

            John’s hand closes around Sam’s shoulder shaking him gently, trying to get him away from the still twitching corpse. He’s taken care of the others and he’s speaking to Sam through a fog. “Get Dean to the car”. Nodding dumbly, Sam wrenches himself into motion and carefully pulls his brother into his arms. Dean leans against him heavily and Sam half carries him to the Impala, mumbling reassurances through panting breaths.

            Sam gets Dean into the backseat and grabs up a discarded flannel shirt from the floorboard to press against his bleeding abdomen. Dean coughs up a spray of blood at the sudden pressure and his eyes loll back in his head. A quick stab of fear in Sam’s stomach has him pressing a black soaked hand against Dean’s cheek, calling his name until his eyes finally focus.

            “Sammy,” he rasps, grabbing at Sam’s forearm. Whatever he says next is lost in the blood bubbling up from his throat.

            “You’re gonna be fine, Dean. I’m gonna take care of you.” Sam assures him, though the flood of tears he’s speaking through belies his fear.

            John is there suddenly, the dead bodies in a pile and burning, casting an orange glow like a grotesque halo around his form. He budges in beside Sam and carefully lifts his hand away from Dean’s wound. After a heavy moment, his face falls into a pained grimace and he locks eyes with his youngest.

            “You gotta drive him to a hospital, Sammy. Fast.”

…

            Sam’s leaning over Dean’s hospital bed, head pillowed on an arm, his hand gripping his brother’s. Dean is stable and in a drug induced sleep, has been for hours. John followed them to the hospital, made sure his son was going to make it, and then returned to the cemetery to finish disposing of the monsters. There’s a second bed in this room but it’s empty. They’re alone.

            Sam’s tears stopped some time ago, his eyes still red and sore. He’s filled with a resolute kind of sadness, a decision that had been looming for years finally set in stone. He’s leaving this life. One way or another, Sam is getting out. If this is what is waiting for him, a lifetime of watching his brother, the one true love in his life, get ripped apart and pieced back together over and over until there’s nothing left of him to fix…he can’t do it. It may be selfish of him but that’s the way his love is: greedy, jealous, desperate. He needs Dean and he needs him to be safe.

            Dean’s fingers twitch in the grasp of Sam’s hand and his head snaps up, eyes wide on the slowly stirring form of his brother. Dean’s eyes shift beneath the delicate freckled skin of his eyelids and then gradually open. He blinks, furrows his brow up at the ceiling in confusion. Sam is standing in an instant, nearly crawling into the bed. He touches Dean’s face, turning him gently to meet his gaze.

            “Hey, hey there,” he says, voice soft but excited, “You’re okay.” He brushes a thumb over the fevered purplish skin beneath Dean’s eye. He’s so pale it makes Sam feel a little sick.

            “What story did you give?” Dean asks, voice dry and barely a whisper.

            “Uh. I said we were camping. That a bear did it,” Sam says, mouth twitching in amusement.

            Dean huffs out a tiny laugh, lips curling minutely. “That’ll do it.”

            “How ya feelin’?”

            “Like I got mauled by a bear,” is Dean’s quick response. “What’s the damage?”

            “You broke a rib when you hit the tombstone and you got some pretty nasty cuts on your stomach. Didn’t do any permanent damage though, thank God.”

            Dean nods just slightly, the pain beginning to edge in around the morphine haze. Sam notices his distress and quickly gives him another click of medication. The pained lines between Dean’s brows gradually ease out and he lets a lazy smile form on his lips, sleepy eyes finding Sam’s.

            “You did good back there, Sammy.”

            Sam’s throat tightens and he feels the threat of tears again. “Shut up before you say something you’ll regret.”

            Dean smiles a little wider, squeezes Sam’s fingers. “I’m sorry. I was wrong about you.”

            “What do you mean? Sorry for what?”

            “You _are_ old enough to know what you want,” he says, voice getting slurred, “Shoulda listened to ya.”

            Sam’s heart is pounding. Dean probably won’t even remember this later. Feeling bold, he leans in and presses a gentle kiss to Dean’s still smiling mouth. “Go back to sleep, Dean.”

He does.

…

   They hole up in a motel for the next week while Dean’s injuries heal. John’s constant presence hangs over them like a wet blanket. Dean spends quite a while sleeping at first, leaving Sam alone with his father in uneasy silences. John still drinks but he does it sneakily from a flask like he thinks Sam is too dumb to notice. Anger at his dad burns under Sam’s skin like a rash. A good father would never put his sons in so much danger. To Sam’s knowledge, John hadn’t even apologized. What hurts even more is that Dean doesn’t _expect_ an apology.

            Dean is up and about toward the end of the week and John has already started looking for another hunt. Sam steadfastly keeps his mouth shut for Dean’s sake though he wants to rant and rail against his dad, beat him with his fists until he’s as hurt as his brother is. Dean is taking his condition as lightheartedly as he’s expected to, making jokes around a fistful of painkillers, blinking back his pain like Sam won’t notice. By that Sunday, John packs his bags and takes off, promising to check in later that night. No one really expects him to.

            Sam catches Dean as he’s coming out from his careful showering, towel tied around his waist. He’s caught up for a moment in the pink flush of Dean’s skin, freckles standing out in sharp relief and his hair in a spiky disarray. His breath shudders out at the lines of stitches marring the otherwise perfect surface of his abs.

            Clearing his throat, he holds up the small pair of scissors in his hand. “Thought we’d get those stitches out,” he explains, “be easier to do it now.”

            “Right,” Dean says, seeming to close in on himself a little at the mention of his stitches. It makes Sam feel sick.

            Dean sits down on the lid of the toilet and Sam kneels next to him. It’s not his first time removing stitches but this time seems different, more intimate somehow. The humid air is sticking his shirt to his body, beads of sweat prickling at his hairline as he tentatively touches Dean’s shower damp skin. He feels Dean breathe in as the first stitch is cut, that slow drag of thread through skin that makes Sam grit his teeth in sympathy.

            Somewhere on the second line of stitching, Dean speaks. “I mean what I said, Sammy.”

            Sam’s fingers freeze, eyes sliding up to Dean’s face. Swallowing around the heart in his throat, he asks, “What do you mean?”

            “I think you know.”

            Dean holds his gaze until Sam tears his away, returning to the task at hand with renewed concentration. Dean says nothing further and Sam’s pulse is slamming out of control. He’s almost relieved to leave the room for some rubbing alcohol once the stitches are out. Sam cleans him up efficiently but carefully, pretending it’s not the silvery pink scars making his eyes sting.

            “All done,” Sam announces, hardly a whisper of a voice.

            When he moves to get up, Dean stills him with a hand on his shoulder. Sam has little choice but to meet those eyes. It’s fucking unnerving how they manage to get right up inside his soul like that. He swallows and stares, willing himself to stay put, not to kiss him or hit him or run away though his body itches to move.

            “I’ll give you anything you want, Sam. I owe you everything.”

There it is. The weight of those words sits heavy at the pit of Sam’s stomach like a bowling ball. His jaw ticks and he nods, feeling a burning at the back of his nose. Dean _owes_ him.

“Thanks, Dean but you don’t have to pay me back,” he can barely get the words out through his teeth that are trapping his heart from falling right out.

Dean’s eyebrows scrunch together in confusion and then hurt. “Jesus Christ, Sam. I’m not some cheap fucking date, okay? This isn’t _payment_.”

            “Well I only want it if you want it,” Sam lies. If Dean kept pushing him away forever, he’d keep right on wanting it just as bad.

            “Fuck, Sammy,” Dean growls and grabs his brother by the hair at the nape of his neck. Sam’s mouth opens on a yelp and Dean swallows it right up. He kisses Sam hard and deep, desire in the sweep and push of his tongue, in the needy moans that slip free between the slide of lips. Sam’s so eager for it he can barely contain himself. The thought of hurting Dean is the only thing keeping him from crawling into his lap and demanding to be taken right there.

            Sam’s fingertips are digging into Dean’s thighs where the towel is coming undone. They break free to breathe but keep their faces pressed close, noses and lips bumping together in silent reassurances. Dean’s hands are petting through Sam’s shaggy mess of hair, curling the long strands in his fingers and Sam sighs into him; Dean can feel the hard ridge of Sam’s cock against his shin.

            “Damn,” Dean swears through a laugh, trying to will away his own erection, “As soon as I can breathe without agonizing rib pain, I’m gonna fuck you so good.”

            Sam bursts out a laugh, feeling lighter than he has in a week and bumps his forehead against Dean’s. “Is that a threat?”

            Dean twists his hand a little tighter in Sam’s hair, watches his brother gasp. “It’s a promise.”

…

            Bobby lets them hang out at his house for the next month and it feels like a much needed vacation. John checks in for new leads, tacking an inquiry after Dean’s health onto the end like an afterthought. In the back of his mind, Sam knows that John loves them both but it’s very easy to forget sometimes. Luckily, Sam and Dean have each other and Bobby who dotes on Dean though he pretends not to. He’s always cooking his favorite foods and bringing him beers from the fridge even when he doesn’t ask.

            The only downside is that they’re never alone. Dean is healing up well and he makes it clear through flirtatious glances and lingering touches that he’s more than ready to make good on his promise. This of course results in an extremely frustrated Sam. In the spare few minutes they get to themselves during the day, they practically collide with one another, grabbing and kissing, pushing a hand roughly into underwear, usually just enough to get each other painfully worked up before Bobby comes back inside.

            In the morning, Sam gets himself off in the shower with a few soapy fingers in his ass and sometimes at night, he and Dean will trade kisses and handjobs, stifling their sounds from Bobby’s keen ears. It’s just enough to dampen down the fire, to take the edge off so they can actually think about something other than rutting together like wild animals.

            In these more lucid moments, Sam fills out college applications he’s been saving his money for. He keeps it a secret from everyone but Bobby, whom he nervously confesses to one night over some Latin tomes. Bobby is oddly quiet in his understanding, nodding along while Sam tries to control himself, not to shake and stutter when he explains how Dean’s injury made up his mind. Of course, he plays up the “I don’t want to end up like that or worse” angle instead of the “I would rather die than see Dean get hurt again” truth.

            Bobby tells him that he understands, and really he does. No kid should be forced into this life. Even though he seems less than optimistic about Sam actually making it out, he agrees to keep Sam’s secret and gives him permission to use his home address on the application forms. He promises to forward on any acceptance letters to Sam and to claim ignorance should John or Dean ever discover them.

            In the middle of June, there’s a horrific thunderstorm. Bobby wants them all downstairs in case of a power outage so Sam and Dean gathered the blankets off their bed and spread them out on the floor in front of the television. They’ve been marathoning action movies since the cable signal went out hours ago. Sure enough, not long after dark, there’s a deafening boom of thunder, a streak of lightening across the sky and then everything goes dark.

            Bobby curses and scrounges around in the dark until he comes up with several candles he keeps around for spells. Dean pulls the Zippo out of his pocket and lights them all in a semicircle on the floor around their little nest. The way the candlelight drenches Dean’s skin in warmth and gold makes Sam’s heart pound and from the furtive glances Dean keeps casting his way, he’s feeling the same. The only problem is the giant cockblock that is Bobby Singer, sitting on the couch just behind them.

            Sam sneaks his hand over just far enough to touch his pinky to Dean’s. Dean flinches minutely and overlaps their fingers. That gentle contact makes Sam’s skin heat and he bites his lip. His brother looks at him from under ridiculous lashes, eyes honed in on where Sam’s teeth sink into the pink plush of his lower lip and Sam can hear his own pulse in his ears.

            The sound of Bobby’s cell phone startles them out of their clandestine eye-fuck and Bobby lurches up off the couch again to where he left his phone sitting on the kitchen table. By the sound of his muffled swear, he tripped over something on his way. The boys listen intently, noting the fact that it was Bobby’s personal phone that rang and only a few people have that number. By the aggravated sigh he gives, they’re pretty damn positive it’s their father. That can mean a couple of things and not all of them are good.

            After a bout of arguing, Bobby hangs up and appears in the doorway, a barely illuminated shadow. “Seems that your daddy got in a little over his head,” he says, mocking clear in his tone enough to make Sam smile, “He needs backup and I’m all he’s got.”

            “You’re leaving?” Sam asks, a little too quickly.

            “Yeah, at least until tomorrow. You boys can handle yourselves that long, right?”

            ‘ _We can handle each other_ ,’ Sam’s brain snarkily replies. Luckily Dean picks up the slack with “Sure thing, Bobby.”

            They wait with jittering nerves for Bobby to throw his duffle bag together and pick up a couple of books off his desk. “Hopefully the power’ll come back soon but if it doesn’t, there’s a backup generator in the garage. _Only_ for emergencies, got it?”

            Both boys nod and then Bobby’s gone, out into the torrent of rain. They listen for the grumble of his engine under the storm sound; wait for it to roar up the driveway before they pounce on each other. Their teeth clack together with the force of their kiss and Sam finds himself on his back with Dean on top of him. His brother slides his hands right up under his shirt, skating hot palms over his rib cage and nipples.

            Sam’s mouth falls open on a groan and Dean swallows it up, replaces it with his tongue. Sam’s fingers are clawing down Dean’s back, making him shudder before he grabs the hem of his shirt and tugs at it hard. Dean takes the hint and sits up just long enough to yank it off and throw it aside. The amulet on his chest gleams in the candlelight and Sam puts his hand over it, soaking up its heat.

            Dean swallows and looks at Sam’s eyes, almost gold in this light and the intensity of the situation begins to set in. Gently now, he takes Sam’s shirt and tugs it up over his head. His hair floofs back down in a feathery mess and Dean smoothes it with his hands, cupping his face to kiss his forehead. Sam tilts his face up, pressing his lips to Dean’s softly, slow heat melting Dean like butter.

            “Stay here, Sammy,” Dean says, barely loud enough to hear over the rain and Sam nods dumbly, watching his brother get up and head for the stairs.

            By the time Dean feels his way back to the living room with his bottle of lube, Sam has stripped down to his boxer briefs. Dean stops short to take in the sight of all that tan skin bathed in firelight and his heart surges. “Christ, Sammy,” he breathes, kneeling down beside him.

            Sam reaches up an arm, pulling him down until Dean is lying half on top of him. He kisses Dean so languidly it’s driving him out of his mind and his hand is moving in slow, hot circles over his chest. He gently circles a nipple with his fingertip before pinching gently, making Dean gasp and press hips into Sam’s side. Dean’s hand rubs along the slender taper of Sam’s waist, gripping at his hipbones and tugging him in closer.

            Sam’s teeth tug gently at Dean’s lower lip, letting it go with a tiny sound that makes Dean’s breath come out ragged. He looks his brother right in the eye and says, “I want you to fuck me, Dean.”

            This time, Dean’s answer is a moan and a crush of lips, his head nodding into the kiss before he pulls back and trails his mouth along Sam’s neck. Sam arches against him and Dean puts one heated palm over Sam’s erection, just squeezing him through the fabric. Sam whimpers and spreads his legs and Dean focuses on not blowing his load too soon. He sits back and slides Sam’s underwear off before situating himself between his long legs. It’s unbelievable, looking down at him like this, spreading his broad hands over Sam’s thighs and watching his cock jerk against his stomach in anticipation. God, he should have given in years ago.

            He presses a kiss to the middle of Sam’s chest, his stomach, then just beneath his belly button. Sam fidgets under him and Dean smirks before kissing his hipbone instead of his cock. Sam huffs out a frustrated little laugh and Dean apologizes with a swipe of his tongue right under the head that makes Sam curse. He kisses down the impressive length of his dick and flattens his tongue against his balls. Sam’s hips are twitching up of their own volition, his hands curled in the mass of blankets underneath him. He’s so goddamn beautiful.

            With a needy sound, Dean grabs Sam under the thighs, letting his legs drape over his shoulders as he gets his hands on Sam’s ass cheeks. Sam’s lower back is completely off the floor now and Dean’s tongue is sliding down behind his balls until it’s swirling around his hole. Sam lets out a shockingly loud moan and shoves his hips into Dean’s face. Getting the point, Dean starts kissing him, lips sucking and pulling at the tender skin, tongue pushing its way inside.

            Sam’s nearly thrashing, his face and chest stained pink, hair plastered to his face in a sweaty mess. Dean growls possessively, nipping at the flexing muscle under his mouth before shoving his tongue in deep. Sam arches, his whole body starting to shake as he warns Dean to stop.

            “Stop, stop, fuck,” he pants, though he’s still trying to hump Dean’s mouth, “Shit, don’t wanna come like this, Dean. Wanna come with you inside me.”

            Dean groans, reaching down quickly to squeeze the base of his own dick but he nods against Sam’s quivering thigh. With unsteady hands, Dean lowers Sam back down and fumbles the cap off the lube to slick up his fingers. Sam hikes up his own leg in a way that makes Dean’s mouth go dry and he tentatively pushes a finger against Sam’s flushed entrance. Sam’s body swallows him up easy as anything and they both groan at the sensation.

            Dean slides his finger around gently, starting a slow in and out rhythm until Sam starts pushing at him for more. He adds more lube before he pushes in with two, making Sam’s head tip back on a moan when Dean spreads them apart inside him.

            “Mmm, almost,” Sam encourages when Dean’s fingers start searching out his prostate, “Up just a little bit-AH!”

            Dean grins when he finds it, flicking his fingertips over the nerves and watching Sammy squirm. He pulls back and slams back in with enough force to make Sam yell and starts finger fucking him in earnest. Now that he’s found that magic spot, he refuses to let up and Sam’s got tears gathering at the corners of his eyes.

            “God, Dean!” he almost begs, “I’m ready, please.”

            Dean stutters out a breath as he pulls his fingers free, watching Sam’s body cling to them, try to pull them back inside. Sam whines a little at the loss but Dean’s already lubing himself up. Sam’s got his legs open, ready for Dean to slide up between them but what he doesn’t expect is to be grabbed by the waist and pulled up until he’s straddling Dean who is now on his back.

            Dean slides his palms up Sam’s sweat damp sides and digs his fingers into his hips. “Want you to ride me, little brother,” he says, his voice deep and strung out, “Show me what you like.”

            Sam moans, nodding frantically. He gets up on his knees and lines Dean up with a trembling hand. With a sharp intake of breath, he pushes down, slowly taking Dean’s cock into his body, inch by inch. Dean is breathless with the tight heat surrounding him, better than he could have ever imagined. Sam lets his air out on a blissful sigh when his ass meets Dean’s thighs and he’s finally, _finally_ got his brother inside him.

            Dean licks his lips as he watches Sam adjust, desperately holding himself back from fucking into that warm grip like he wants. Sam slowly swivels his hips, feeling Dean pressing against his insides, huge and perfect and he lets his head fall back when the tip nudges his prostate.

            “Fuck, Dean…” he nearly sobs, grinding down on his dick, “You feel so fucking amazing.”

            “Sammy,” Dean chokes, hips pulsing up against his will. He can’t find any other words to accurately describe this feeling.

            Sam, thankfully, erases any need for words from Dean’s brain when he slides back up to the tip and slams back down. Stars explode behind Sam’s eyes and Dean is panting, digging bruises into his hips that Sam can barely feel. He starts riding Dean for real, lifting and dropping and grinding in tight little circles, using Dean’s cock to find his sweet spot and ram it on every other stroke. His own dick is nearly purple at the tip, leaking a steady stream onto Dean’s abs and his hands are clutching at his pecs, piercing little crescent shapes into his skin.

            “God, yeah, c’mon baby,” Dean rambles, watching Sam’s mouth fall open on needy little sounds like they’re getting punched right out of him. His hair is swishing around his face, hiding his eyes but Dean knows they’re clenched shut in pleasure, that Sam is about to lose it.

            Dean’s close too, so fucking close. On impulse, he holds Sam tight and rears up off the floor, getting Sam underneath him without ever leaving his body. He digs his hands into Sam’s hair and uses this new position to pound into his brother who’s clinging to his back and shouting his head off. It takes less than a minute for Sam to seize up around him, his legs locking around Dean’s back and shaking as he explodes between them, hot wetness shooting all the way up their chests, hitting Sam on his own chin.

            “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Dean chants, slamming into Sam’s clenching body until he comes. He gasps and shudders, vision whiting out until he thinks he might faint. He ends up slumping onto Sam, their foreheads smashed together as they try to suck in the humid air between them.

            After several minutes of panting and sharing sloppy kisses, Dean carefully pulls out and flops over to Sam’s side. Sam turns his head to meet his eyes and smiles hazily, dimples popping out in sharp relief in the flicker of the candles. Dean’s heart clenches and he reaches out to touch Sam’s face, thumb smoothing over his damp cheekbone. Sam hums contentedly and kisses his brother’s palm, using his own hand to keep it there.

            Sex has never been like this before, not for Dean. He’s never loved anybody this much and it should be terrifying but it’s thrilling because this is Sam. It’s always been Sam. He scoots closer to Dean like he can’t bear the inches of space between them and pushes his face into the sweaty curve of his neck. Dean wraps his arms around his beautiful little brother and hugs him close.

…

            Sam wakes up some time in the middle of the night. All but a few candles have burned out but the television is back on, as is the light in the kitchen. The storm has eased off to a gentle patter of rain and Dean is snoring lightly beside him. Sam smiles and snuggles closer to his brother, pulling one of the spare blankets over their bodies. He hopes Bobby doesn’t get home too early in the morning or things are going to be more than a little awkward.

            The thought of Sam’s college applications interrupts his otherwise perfect happiness and he feels his heart fall a little. The thought of leaving Dean now feels even more impossible than it did before. He squeezes Dean a little tighter and nuzzles into his side. Dean makes a sleepy sound and pushes his nose into Sam’s hair.

That’s it, then. He’s got one year to convince Dean to run away with him. He doesn’t let himself consider the alternative. With a yawn, he slowly drifts back into sleep to the sounds of Dean’s breath, the rain, and the ending credits of _Indiana Jones_.


End file.
